


Sunshine Lemon and Blueberry Muffins

by onlyacoffee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Asexuality, Fluff, M/M, Mindless Fluff, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:04:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyacoffee/pseuds/onlyacoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Modern era, Courfeyrac/ace!Combeferre]</p><p>Carefully, Courfeyrac opens the door. He’s wearing pyjama pants and a light blue t-shirt – too big for him, Combeferre’s t-shirt - and holding a mug of hot, sweet-smelling drink.</p><p>“Hey, sleepyhead,” he says, but there’s something in his voice and on his face – something strange, thoughtful. Sad, even.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunshine Lemon and Blueberry Muffins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shitgetapen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shitgetapen/gifts).



> Written for Asexy April - which I just learned is a thing! I might try to write a couple more one-shots with ace characterization before this month is over. I consider myself asexual, and I know that many people might have different ideas about asexuality. And that's good! For certain people it means something, for others, it means something else - there a whole spectrum, really, and in a way that's the beauty of identity, isn't it? For me, being asexual doesn't mean being aromantic, or even never having sex ever. So, here, have some Courf/'Ferre fluff!

It is Sunday morning, and like every Sunday morning, Combeferre allows himself to wake up slowly. It must be no later that 8:30, he thinks as he takes notes of his surroundings before opening his eyes: it’s raining, and quite heavily; the apartment smells like blueberries, and his bed his empty – and telling by the sounds coming from the kitchen, his boyfriend is already up and making breakfast. Him and Courfeyrac haven’t been together for very long, but it seems to Combeferre that he is quickly getting used to waking up besides the smaller man, and his bed already feels too big without the other’s warm body under its sheets.

Combeferre stretches lazily, like a cat, and he yawns. His eyes slowly blink open as he hears a knock at the door. 

“I’m awake,” he calls, sitting up. He grabs his glasses from the bedside table, then his boxers from the floor. He pulls them on, more out of habit than of honest modesty.

Carefully, Courfeyrac opens the door. He’s wearing pyjama pants and a light blue t-shirt – too big for him, Combeferre’s t-shirt - and holding a mug of hot, sweet-smelling drink.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he says, but there’s something in his voice and on his face – something strange, thoughtful. Sad, even. 

Courfeyrac is an emotional man, Combeferre knows. His emotions are different than Prouvaire’s artistic impressions, or Grantaire’s cynicism – which Combeferre suspects to be somewhat forced, by circumstances if not by choice. Courfeyrac is different, though. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and he does not generally have to be pried to talk about whatever troubles him.

But it is early still for a Sunday morning, so Combeferre doesn’t ask immediately, not before he’s had at least one sip of tea. He just shifts his legs a little, an invitation for the other to join him.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” he says, hoping to draw a smile from the younger man. But instead of kissing his cheek lying down besides him as he usually does, Courfeyrac simply sits on the bed and wordlessly hands him the mug.

“Lemon tea?” Combeferre tries to take a sip, but the tea is too hot and his glasses fog up, so he leaves the tea on the bedside table. He tries to look at Courfeyrac. “Thank you, this is very sweet of you.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t meet his eyes – which is unusual, as is his quietness. Combeferre frowns. 

“What’s wrong?” Genuinely worried, now, he gently touches his boyfriend’s elbow. His other hand rises to the other’s shoulder. 

“Nothing,” Courfeyrac shakes his head, dark curls bouncing off his forehead. Combeferre reaches up, smoothing the other’s soft hair.

“It’s not, Courf,” he insists. “Come on, tell me?”

Courfeyrac sighs. He never could hide his emotions very well, least of all from Combeferre. 

“I just…” he looks up at the ceiling. “About yesterday.”

“Yes?” Yesterday had been a nice, quiet night at home. The weather was bad, and so they had watched a movie on Netflix and gone to bed reasonably early, although it was past midnight when they finally fell asleep, Courfeyrac’s head pillowed on Combeferre’s chest, both of their bodies slick with sweat. 

Combeferre has an idea of where the conversation is going, but he wants Courfeyrac to say it - he obviously needs to. 

“Did I…” Courfeyrac sighs again, blinks. His voice is quiet and hurried. “Did I hurt you?”  
Although that wasn’t quite what Combeferre expected.

“I’m sorry?” his frowns in confusion.

“I mean,” Courfeyrac continues. “I know you’re, like… I mean I really appreciate it and stuff, but you don’t have to, if you, y’know…”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre stops him. “Calm down, please, you aren’t making sense. What are you talking about?”

Courfeyrac groans, frustrated. “I’m making perfect sense, and you know what I’m talking about, come on! I’m hard to follow, sometimes, ‘Ferre, I know I am, but I don’t want you to feel like you _have_ to have sex with me!”

For a moment, Combeferre is too stunned to answer. He blinks, and is about to ask Courfeyrac to repeat himself, because he certainly can’t have heard right, but Courfeyrac’s shoulders slump and he sighs heavily.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he finishes, his voice quiet and deflated. 

“But I don’t feel like that,” Combeferre manages to keep his voice calm, his left hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on his boyfriend’s shoulder. “You don’t hurt me, Courfeyrac, and you’re certainly not forcing me into anything. I have to say… I like it, even.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Courfeyrac sulks. He looks so young, and Combeferre shakes his head.

“But I’m not lying,” he leans forward. He wraps an arm over the smaller man’s shoulder and kisses his neck. “I like it, because I love you,” he continues, punctuating his sentence with little kisses on the smooth, tanned expense of Courfeyrac’s exposed skin. “I love you, and I like making love to you, because then I can watch you smile, and moan, and relax and come undone. That’s what I like about it. ” Courfeyrac’s face is warm, and Combeferre chuckles.

“See? You’re being childish, Courf,” he teases gently. “Just trust me. I know my limits, I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” Courfeyrac looks up. He’s smiling for the first time this morning. It’s a shy smile still, but his eyes are bright. “I trust you, too. You’ll tell me, if you…”

“Good,” Combeferre nods, satisfied. “Now kiss me, please.”

Courfeyrac is happy to oblige. They stay like that, Courfeyrac almost sitting on Combeferre’s lap, arms wrapped around each other, until the ringing of the oven timer surprises them both.

“Oh!” Courfeyrac exclaims, breaking the kiss. His lips are already swollen, and his cheeks are red. “Crap, I’d forgotten!”

Combeferre is aware once more of the strong scent of sweet blueberry. He laughs.

“You made..?”

“… It’s blueberry muffins,” Courfeyrac answers. He scratches the back of his head and laughs, a little embarrassed at his own sappiness. “I know you like cinnamon buns better, but…”

Combeferre smiles at him.

“I love blueberry muffins, Courf,” he says, gazing into his boyfriend’s eyes. “Thank you.”

This time, Courfeyrac’s grin is bright and honest - it reaches his eyes, infusing them with warmth and kindness. He runs out of the room before breakfast is burned; still smiling, Combeferre reaches for the cup of lemon tea and takes a sip.


End file.
